I grit my teeth, yanking off my ball cap and dragging a hand down over my face, stifling thefuckthat burns my tongue like vitriol ready to explode out of me.
Max, my caddy, comes up behind me, carefully taking theclub from my fisted grip and offering me a gentle pat on my back.
“I’m playing like shit again, man,” I mutter under my breath, head down as we walk.
“You’re in your fucking head, Brookes,” Max says softly. “What’s going on?”
I wish I knew, but I don’t.
After yesterday’s shit show of a first round, this morning I woke up, went for a jog, had a good breakfast, and jerked off in the shower because that’s what I always do before a round, but the second I got to the country club—the second I saw the crowds, the reporters, the cameras—it’s like I lost whatever focus I had. Then, finding out I was being paired up with Jackson fucking Taylor in the second round was enough to send me over the edge. I knew it then and there; this whole fucking thing has been a goddamn setup. The AGL doesn’t want me here, and they knew pairing me up with my oldest, most contentious rival on day two would likely set me off so that there’s no way I’d make the cut.
“I don’t know, man,” is all I say in response to Max, shaking my head.
We stop by my ball, and I narrow my eyes to see through the glare of the sunshine beaming down, making out the pin. We’re out by at least a hundred and fifty yards.
“Three wood or five iron?” I glance at Max, seeking his advice.
Max crouches and plucks a few blades of grass from the dirt. Standing, he holds them between pinched fingers before allowing them to float off into the breeze.
“I’d go with the three and hold with the wind,” Max says, rubbing his chin contemplatively. “Cut left just a touch and you’ve got about four feet of green behind the pin to work with.”
I nod. Max is only twenty years old—still in college—but the little bastard knows his shit. I have no doubt he’ll be playing alongside me one of these days, and honestly, I can’t wait to seehim do amazing things. I’ll be his biggest fucking supporter, his number one fan.
Accepting the three wood from Max, I take a couple of practice swings before stepping forward and lining up for the shot. My swing is clean, and I know before I even look up that I’ve hit the green, the crowd clapping along with a few audibleohhhsandahhhs.
“Chip it in, take the bogey, and we can make up the points on the two par fives on the back nine,” Max says, sliding my club back into the bag and hefting it up onto his shoulder.
I sniff a laugh, shaking my head because while I love the enthusiasm, I’m on forty-four at the ninth. It’s going to take a goddamn miracle to make the cut.
Max and I walk up the slope to the green, where Jackson is already standing, leaning on his putter, his smirk menacing beneath the shadow of his ball cap.
I wait, arms folded across my chest, watching as he lines up his shot. He’s effortless, his putt casual as he chips it slightly left, the ball sailing across the green before dropping into the cup with perfect precision.
The crowd claps, a few people cheer, and Jackson lifts his cap off his head, nodding at them all before bending over to collect his ball. He meets my eyes, his grin easy, but the look in his gaze says it all, and I wait for whatever it is he’s about to hit me with.
“Don’t worry, Brookes. The day is young. Plenty of golf left,” he antagonizes on his way past, which is exactly the kind of thing an asshole says to someone who is on the verge of completely unravelling.
Grinding my molars to the point of pain, I nod curtly, because anything else would look like weakness, and weakness is blood in the water for a scavenger like Jackson.
Silence settles as I walk across the green to where my ball lays, my spikes crunching louder than they should. Every one of my steps feels judged. I can visualize the cut line like a shadow creeping forward, hole by hole. I try to slow my breathing, try totell myself that this is just another day, just another round, just another putt, but my hands don’t listen. As I line up, reading the lay between my ball and the hole, I pull back carefully, which is precisely when Jackson barks a cough—accidental, I’m sure—and I hesitate for half a heartbeat. Unfortunately, that’s all it takes. The ball skews too far left, going wider than it should before rolling to a stop on the complete other side of the goddamn green.
I hang my head in shame, closing my eyes as the crowd groans yet again, someone laughing loudly. A double bogey on a par fucking three? You have got to be shitting me.
“It’s okay, Brookes,” Max says behind me. “You’ve got this.”
As I cross the green, I try to remind myself that I’ve escaped worse than this over the years. And I haven’t come this far just to miss out. But as I step up to my ball, listening to Jackson murmuring with the gallery behind me, I know, right now, I’m not playing against him; I’m playing against myself, against my past, against the voice in my head—my own worst enemy. And right now, there is a very frayed line between holding it together and letting it all fall apart.
Snapping my head up, I meet Max’s concerned gaze, noticing the way his eyebrows tug together as he takes me in.
“What is it, Brookes?” he asks. “What do you need?”
“Poppy.” My voice is a rasped plea, almost lost to the wind. “I-I think I need Poppy.”
CHAPTER 20
POPPY
Unknown: Hey Poppy, this is Max, Brookes’ caddy. He… needs you.
